Wicked Highland Lords: Over 1100 pages of Scottish Regency Romance

by Tarah Scott

  Guilt niggled. If her presence at the soiree was discovered…she commanded her nerves into submission. Responsibility be damned. She would leave before the assigned hour of two a.m. when the masks were to be removed. No one would know the future Viscountess of Blackhall had attended a masque. Tonight, she was simply one of the many masked women bent on seduction—and being seduced.

  Caroline ducked her head, allowing the locks of her long blonde wig to fall to the sides of her face. A crescendo of violins rose from the orchestra. The beat of her heart matched the trilling vibrato. She turned her face just enough to be able to study her admirer through her lashes. His gaze boldly met hers, then dropped to the draped bodice of her Aphrodite costume. Warmth spread through her limbs and brought a flush to her cheeks.

  The rich purple of the long sash around her neck contrasted with the stark white of the plunging décolletage designed to accentuate full breasts, bared to a hint of nipple pink. Her pulse skipped a beat. If she leaned forward a hair’s breadth…

  The crowd pressed closer, up the two steps that separated them from the dance floor. The masked gentleman’s leg brushed her thigh, revealed by the slit in the costume’s long skirt. She could scarcely believe her luck. A second move, and one so bold this early in the evening. The hour was just before midnight and the more prominent guests had yet to appear. If she had captured his imagination to the extent he would forsake other possibilities, this last night of freedom might cost less than the allotted two hours.

  “Your beauty makes me forget my manners,” the domino murmured.

  She gave a low laugh. “I daresay your manners are impeccable—outside of this room.”

  His gaze locked onto her mouth. “Do you prefer impeccable manners?”

  She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. His eyes darkened, and her heart skittered as he leaned into her. Caroline slid around the pillar towards the wall, intending to draw him into a more intimate semblance of privacy. Her hip collided with rounded buttocks. She twisted to the right. A masked joker grinned at her over the head of the lady she had bumped into. He reached out with the hand that was wrapped around the woman’s waist and nipped at the skin just below Caroline’s breast.

  She turned back around and got a mouthful of her domino’s hard chest. She snapped her head up, and blue eyes stared down at her in a blaze of desire. She froze as his mouth descended. Soft as velvet, his lips slid languidly over hers. He flicked his tongue against her lips and she breathed in the heavy aroma of cigars, and recognized the pungent taste of brandy. Her uncle smelt of brandy and cigars.

  Uncle? She tensed, eyes locked on the domino’s shadowed features. His seductive kiss played on her lips. An unpleasant tremor fluttered in her stomach. Damn her uncle. She closed her eyes tight and focused on the warmth of the domino’s lips. A low groan rumbled from him. Strong, solid arms banded around her and pulled her closer. Caroline concentrated on the feel of her breasts flattened against the hard muscles of his chest. Why didn’t her heart pound, her breath catch, her body yearn for his touch?

  Fear surfaced. No. She refused to believe what her betrothed, John, had said only two months before his death. Despite the fact he had come from yet another night of drinking, gaming, and carousing, the accusation that she was a passionless husk had cut deep. The cloying scent of perfume and tobacco that clung to him had reminded her that he felt no regret about going from one woman’s bed to another. But doubt lingered.

  She forced back the memory. It wasn’t lack of desire that kept her from enjoying the domino, but the dread of discovery. Once they were alone, she would discover the ecstasy of his lust. Her heart beat faster with the memory of overhearing John speak of how a woman had driven him mad by sucking and licking his cock. She planned to drive this man wild and discover the part of her that ached for a man’s touch.

  The domino deepened the kiss and Caroline envisioned him braced over her, hands on her bared breasts, his hard length rubbing against her pussy. Darker features and black hair unexpectedly replaced the fair-haired domino in her mind. A flicker of pleasure tightened her nipples and the desire streaked to the heated petals of her pussy.

  Caroline clutched the domino’s shirt. His grip tightened as his tongue curled around hers, tasting, stroking. She slipped her hands between their bodies and pressed against his sternum. The firm, contoured muscles of his chest quivered beneath her fingertips. She liked this, would gladly take him, and yet, she had expected something more.

  He drew back and trailed fingers over the thin material of her costume, grazing the edge of her breast. From the corner of her eye, Caroline caught sight of lush, blonde hair piled atop the head of a woman wearing a Marie Antoinette costume. She froze. Only one woman between Newcastle and London had such luscious hair that she needed no wig to play Marie Antoinette. Lady Margaret.

  What was Margaret doing here? Earlier that afternoon, when her mama had asked her if she planned to attend the ball, she had claimed to have a headache. She’d told Caroline privately that she found the ton even more tiresome in Newcastle than she did in London. Caroline would never have dared attend the masque in London, where she was sure to be recognized. But her uncle had insisted at nearly the last minute that they oblige her future father-in-law and hold the wedding in the chapel on his estate. So here in Newcastle, she had little fear of getting caught at the party. Her heart sank. Now Margaret had destroyed her last chance for seduction. There was nothing left but to flee.

  The blue domino leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Aphrodite.”

  His breath, warm and eager, brushed the tiny hairs on her skin. A shiver raced along her spine and made her scalp tingle. Yes. This she craved. Damn. Too late, all too late.

  The domino withdrew enough to be able to look upon her face. “Perhaps we should find somewhere more private?”

  If he had suggested that but five minutes ago! She would throttle Margaret. Caroline lifted a corner of her mouth in a half-smile. “Pray, sir, fetch me a punch. This room is a veritable sweatbox.” She ran fingers over the swell of her breasts, wiping a trail in the sheen of perspiration beaded across her skin.

  His gaze followed the action, eyes darkening before he returned his gaze to her face and gave a slight bow. “At your service.”

  He turned and took the two steps down to the dance floor, then began shouldering his way through the crowd towards the buffet table at the opposite side of the room. Caroline hesitated, the lost hope of feeling that muscled chest beneath her palms and his hard thighs heavy against her, suddenly bitter. She had planned intimate kisses, clandestine caresses, and the memory of a man’s hard cock between her fingers. She planned to give all, save proof of her innocence. On the morrow, she would do her duty as the promised virgin. Now nothing. If Margaret caught her at the ball, there would be hell to pay.

  Caroline swallowed the panic bubbling in her throat, and turned to the left, intending to skirt the wall to the French doors that lay a few feet away. She met the joker’s gaze. He grinned. The woman with him faced Caroline and gave her a sultry look. Caroline turned to the right and glanced in the direction she’d seen Margaret. Where had she gone? Nerves sizzled with apprehension and tension in her neck promised a headache in the morning.

  She looked back in the direction of her companion. He halted to the left of the masked dancers and turned to stare at her. A small smile curved one side of his mouth. Her stomach fluttered, then soured. The ball was the event of the season. He would be another ten minutes making his way through the crowd. By then, she would be on her way home. Caroline turned and hugged close to the column as she headed for the balcony doors. She slipped past couples in intimate conversation. Under her breath, she cursed again, and scanned the crowd as she sidestepped a woman dressed as Autumn. Once outside, she would make her way through the gardens to the servants’ entrance, then to the front of the mansion where a hackney waited.

  She was out the door, across the stone balcony and down the last of the four steps when behind
her a voice said, “Have you gone mad?”

  Caroline froze, skirt held above her ankles. It had been too easy. She released the dress and slowly turned. Lady Margaret stood at the top of the stairs, the ridiculous pannier she wore spanning half the width of the steps. Caroline started to speak, then paused when another masked domino and sultana emerged from the ballroom. He pulled the sultana closer and she responded with a giggle. They rushed down the stairs, headed for the seclusion of the gardens. Longing stabbed at Caroline. She was a fool to have thought she belonged here.

  Margaret’s gaze followed their retreat, then shifted back to Caroline. “Looking for a bit of privacy?”

  Caroline ignored the cold—she had left her wrap inside and had not intended on retrieving it—and leaned against the stone pillar. “I am alone, as you can see.”

  “Yes, I can see you are…now.” Margaret took two of the steps, stopping so that she towered over Caroline. “Perhaps you have a lover waiting in the garden?”

  Caroline sighed. “How did you know it was me?”

  Margaret snorted. “We have known one another since the nursery. I would know you in any disguise. Just as you recognized me—and do not deny that is the reason you fled.” She descended to the fourth step so that they were eye level with each other and said in a voice barely audible over the music filtering from the ballroom, “You are to marry on the morrow. What in God’s name are you thinking?”

  “As you say, tomorrow I marry. I go from grieving betrothed to wife.” Unwanted wife, she mentally corrected. So much so that her future husband’s business had taken precedence over their marriage and he refused to come to England until the very day of their wedding. “Surely, I can have this,” she added, “my last night of freedom.”

  Margaret arched a brow. “Do not expect the privileges of rank then flout the responsibilities.”

  Caroline snorted. “Responsibilities be damned. I have worn black a full year and will wed the Viscount tomorrow, as my rank dictates. Tonight, I am not Lady Caroline, heiress to twenty thousand pounds a year, soon to be Viscountess. Tonight, I am Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, who indulges her whims as she wills.”

  A couple appeared from the garden shadows beyond the light cast by the open balcony doors. The dark wig on the woman dressed as Curiosity was askew and leaves clung to the cape on the gentleman dressed as Death.

  Margaret frowned and waited until they’d ascended the stairs and entered the ballroom before saying, “If word of your escapade reaches his lordship, you may well not become Viscountess.”

  “By God, I shall rip off my mask now!” Caroline declared.

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “Pray, forego the dramatics.”

  Caroline narrowed her eyes. “Where is your sense of adventure? What is this spell that has turned you into a prig?”

  “Good sense and age,” Margaret replied. “The same spell you should have fallen under long ago.”

  Caroline gave an unladylike snort. “A year of mourning has soured me. As if being betrothed to that indifferent man hadn’t been enough,” she added under her breath.

  Margaret’s face softened. “Perhaps his brother will be better.”

  Better? She’d heard rumors. Lord Taran Robertson demanded obedience. As apathetic as John had been, Taran was forceful in his cravings—his sexual cravings. She’d even heard he’d used a paddle on a mistress when she’d been disobedient. A thrill streaked along her spine. Controlling and dominant, yet virile and passionate. She remembered the new Viscount of Blackhall. Eyes the color of copper laced with amber strands had darkened to a rich brown when he’d met her gaze in the instant before bending over her hand. She’d been sixteen, too young to recognize the tremor of awareness in her stomach as desire.

  When John died, Taran had become Viscount of Blackhall. A prickle skimmed her arms. Odd, that the same twist of fate that had taken her father had repeated itself and saved her from John. Both had died in riding accidents. Despite her lack of feeling for John, his death had come as a shock. Finding herself betrothed to the brother ere the body was cold had been an even greater shock. She’d had her uncle to thank for that. No. Her father. Had he not left his brother-in-law in charge of her fortune, her future might have looked very different.

  Loneliness closed around her heart. She missed her father. He had been a good man, who couldn’t accept that his wife’s brother, privateer Phillip Etherton, was the infamous pirate Peiter Everston. The fortune Phillip Etherton had amassed came as a result of blurred lines between protecting the seas for the Crown, and murder. But wealth wasn’t enough. Uncle wanted to join the elite circles of society, and her marriage to the Viscount of Blackhall was the price.

  “John cared nothing for me,” she said, more to herself than Margaret. “He was cold and unfeeling.” As would be his brother. A lifetime of cold nights and dreary, lonely days stretched out before her.

  Margaret placed a hand on her shoulder. “I have heard otherwise.”

  “From his mistresses, no doubt.”

  “A man may have as many mistresses as he likes,” Margaret replied. “It is no shame to the wife.”

  “I shall provide the required heir,” Caroline replied with an aplomb she was far from feeling. “I am going.” She turned and continued down the stairs.

  “Car—Aphrodite,” Margaret called, but Caroline didn’t turn back.

  Chapter Two

  “By God,” Caroline cursed ten minutes later.

  Lord Forbes had not been boasting when he’d said his garden maze was unmatched in all of northern England. She blew out a frustrated breath. Of all the nights to become lost in one of the damned labyrinths. She turned down another bend and a white stone statue became visible ahead on the left. Caroline groaned. Already, she’d seen half a dozen replicas of Greek and Roman goddesses. This statue, she realized upon approach, was a large cherubim. The half-moon peeked through a hole in the veil of clouds, illuminating an alcove just ahead.

  “Thank God.”

  Caroline hurried forward. As expected, a stone bench lay nestled between the bushes. She hiked up her skirt and stepped onto the bench. Wind rustled across the hedge tops, setting her nerves more on edge. She scanned the acres of perfectly manicured shrubs that cut and curved in all directions.

  “Bloody hell,” she cursed.

  In the distance, the rear of the maze gave way to trees that stretched heavenward, but she stood no chance of navigating through the twists and turns that led to them. She faced the mansion and studied the path leading back in that direction.

  “Left, right, second right, third—no—second left,” she said, while reciting a silent vow never to have a stupid maze on any of her properties.

  Caroline turned to jump from the bench and shrieked. A masked, kilted god stood nearly eye-to-eye with her. She stumbled back. He seized her waist and yanked her forward. She instinctively threw her arms around his neck to keep from falling and her cheek met the warm, damp flesh of his shoulder. Her heart raced at a gallop.

  “Careful, my lady.” The deep, cultured English accent didn’t quite disguise the hint of Scottish burr.

  Gooseflesh chilled her arms. Yet, her body warmed. Her nipples hardened to erect peaks against the thin fabric of her costume.

  “My lady,” he prodded.

  Fear that he would feel the heat of her arousal immobilized her.

  “I can stand here all night, if it pleases you,” he murmured.

  The erotic vision of him doing just that while she rubbed her nipples against his hard body snapped her head up. Dark eyes indistinguishable from the shadow stared at her through a black eye mask.

  A flurry of butterflies swirled in her tummy. “I am lost.” She cursed the breathless note in her voice.

  “Nay, I found you.” He shifted. A dusting of hair at the nape of his neck tickled her fingertips. He slowly slid her body against his as he lowered her to the ground.

  The scent of leather and cloves clung to him. She inhaled, heart flu
ttering, then tilted her head up. “You have my gratitude, sir. I would be even more grateful if you could direct me out of this…this…labyrinth.”

  “Even more grateful?” he repeated.

  Caroline became aware of the rough wool of his kilt against the sensitive skin of her thigh. She willed her racing heart to slow. Here was the warm flush that had been missing with the domino in the ballroom. Cruel fate. Far too late has come my redemption.

  “Would you like to return to the masque?” His hands dropped from her waist.

  A strange sense of loss washed over her. She steeled her resolve to go home and stepped away from him. “I am leaving.”

  “Through the gardens?” The harshness in his tone startled her. “It is more likely you fled the festivities to meet someone. The blue domino, perhaps?”

  Caroline stiffened. “Anyone attending the masque is well aware of the frolicking taking place in these gardens.”

  “Frolicking?” he repeated.

  “You are here, sir. Need I feel recrimination because I am a woman? Bah,” she added in a mutter. “I have no time for this foolishness.”

  She meant to head towards the mansion, but he blocked the way, so she turned deeper into the maze.

  “My lady.” He grasped her arm.

  She dropped her gaze to his long, dark fingers. His hold, though light, held her firm. An unexpected vision of those strong fingers gripping her hips while he pumped into her from behind caused her to snap her head up.

  “No time for this foolishness?” He lifted his free hand and drew a thumb along her bottom lip.

  Heat coursed through her veins. There was no misreading the invitation. Had he read her mind? He offered what she so desperately desired, a night of passion in the arms of a man who hungered for her. This man would demand more than she could afford—but suddenly wanted with every fiber of her being to give.

  He pulled her an inch closer. She took the step haltingly. Amusement showed in the upturn of his mouth and he tugged her so near that her nipples came into contact with his warm chest. A tremor radiated through her. In all her planning, she hadn’t considered a man might steal her breath as well as rational thought. Heat crept into her face. She disengaged her arm from his grasp.